


Light (All Things In Time, All We’ll Ever Need)

by luninosity



Series: The Epic Universe of Porn, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Trauma, and Love [21]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Commitment, Consensual Kink, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Futures, Hope, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, Love, M/M, Past Abuse, Recovery, Sex, Trust, Unexpected Proposals, protective!Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which some days are bad days, some days are good days, and some days are very good days; James and Michael try to recapture their previous bedroom roles, very carefully; D/s dynamics and all the protective Michael ever; and James has a surprise for Michael.</p>
<p>Slight warnings for references to James's trauma from several stories ago, nothing explicit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light (All Things In Time, All We’ll Ever Need)

**Author's Note:**

> Nearly done! One more after this. Thanks for reading, and being patient! Title from Toad The Wet Sprocket’s “All Things In Time”: _and every day/ looks me in the face and says/ “who’d you think you were anyway?”/ if you’ll hold a light for me to see/ all things in time, all we’ll ever need_

(six months, two weeks, and one day)

The house felt quiet, with Michael gone, but not empty. It understood that Michael’d be coming back. Was comfortable with that knowledge.

James was comfortable with that knowledge, too. He paused, for a second, and set down the afternoon’s script—one of Michael’s prospective projects, one of so many that’d turned up over the last few days and weeks in the mail—to find his iced tea, on the coffee table. Folded his legs back up, stuck his feet under the closest happy couch cushion, and turned a page, but didn’t go back to reading, right away.

The sunlight, outside, played hide-and-seek with giddy clouds. The shadows chased each other across the floor, and disappeared.

Michael was off having a meeting with casting directors and executives, about a role, about _that_ role. The one, the only, James Bond role. Apparently they’d thought about the upcoming replacement for Daniel Craig quite a lot. Had wanted to talk to Michael again.

Michael’d kissed him, before leaving. James had smiled, and promised to go through some of the stacks of Michael’s offered projects and whittle down the options a bit, and plucked the terrible hat off of that gloriously ginger hair, and kissed him back, and let him go.

The sun snuck behind a helpful bit of fog, again.

It’d been a good day, so far. Not all of them were, of course. Not yet. But more often than not. Much more.

Two days ago hadn’t been. He gazed at the script page, not seeing the words, remembering.

It was the unimportant tiny shocks that always triggered the memories. The scent of a familiar cologne on someone’s jacket, brushing past. A laugh, floating up from across a crowded room. Crowded rooms in general; too many bodies, too close to him.

Unanticipated touches made him flinch almost every time. Not from Michael—James knew those hands as intimately as his own, and Michael was careful about not surprising him, always—but other hands, other fingers on his arm, could reach into the darkest crevices of his thoughts and drag recollections up to the surface, squirming and repulsive beneath the light.

Michael’d come with him for what they hoped would be the final check-up, the last doctor’s visit. And that’d gone well; they’d thought it would, but the good news, the confirmation—everything _was_ healed, now, at least physically—had helped regardless.

They’d traded smiles, under the bright and clinical office lights. Had held hands, walking out into the end of the afternoon.

Michael’d offered to buy him dinner, in celebration, and James had said yes. And while they’d been waiting for a table someone had spotted them, and before they could retreat they’d been swarmed by enthusiastic fans.

All of the group had meant well. Each one of them practically squealed with glee when either James or Michael smiled. But there’d been so many of them. Surrounding him. No escape. No way out. No air.

They’d wanted to touch him. To hug him, and shake his hand. And he’d been managing, if somewhat desperately, to say something kind to them all, and then _another_ person had come up soundlessly behind him and tapped him on the shoulder and he’d nearly jumped out of his skin.

Michael’d taken one glance at his expression, and then _looked_ at the crowd. Deliberately. They’d all backed off, one collective step, and James might’ve found it funny except that he hadn’t been quite able to breathe.

He’d kept himself mostly together until they’d made it home, but only because Michael’d been holding him, one arm around his shoulders, a fiercely protective shield keeping the world at bay.

Michael’d continued holding him, even when he couldn’t stop shaking, even when he couldn’t answer all the concerned and reassuring words. Had sat there with him on the floor, because they hadn’t made it to the sofa, and talked him through all the panic and the shuddering breaths and, later, the tears.

He’d tried to apologize. He _was_ better, now. Hated the increasingly rare moments when he wasn’t.

Michael’d shaken his head, at the apology, and murmured words back to him: it’s all right, you’re fine, you’re safe, I love you. And after a while the words had sunk in, and warmed him up again, and he’d stopped shivering. They were true words. He knew that much.

Michael’d been very solicitous, very gentle, with him, since. Hadn’t tried to touch him, other than the lightest of caresses, hand-holding, cautious kisses with plenty of warning. For two days. Going on three, now. Considerate, and respectful, treating James as if entrusted with a precious relic, priceless and irreplaceable.

James wanted to jump on him. To let Michael sweep him up in those arms and carry him off to the bedroom and make certain that James knew, indisputably, to whom he belonged, to whom he’d always belong. Regardless of crowds and memories and other intervening factors. Or maybe because of them. Or maybe he just wanted the reminder for himself, for his own sake, so he could believe it.

He’d been wanting that even before the latest incident, though. Sometimes he wanted that so badly his entire body ached with it: he needed that, to be Michael’s, in that way, so unquestionably, again.

He’d almost tried asking that morning, except his courage had failed him, when Michael’d looked up at him over coffee and smiled, and James had held out one hand and Michael’d taken it and obviously misinterpreted the gesture as James still requiring comfort, and had put both arms around him and tugged until James ended up on his lap, not quite fitting on the spindly kitchen chair and not minding in the least.

And he had wanted the comfort. In a very specific way. But by the time he’d worked out how to voice what he’d actually been thinking, it’d been time for Michael to change into more professional clothing—minus the terrible hat, which Michael adored and James hid every chance he got—and depart, and he couldn’t bring up that subject, not then.

He couldn’t quite pinpoint when, or why, or what’d changed. He knew if he’d been asked, earlier—even a few weeks earlier—he’d’ve flinched, at the idea. At the thought of being so vulnerable, relinquishing control so entirely.

Maybe it was only that he hadn’t been asked. That Michael hadn’t asked. That Michael so plainly only wanted him to feel safe.

He always _had_ felt safe, with Michael. Every time. Being spanked or held down or captured by restraints; none of that frightened him, because Michael would never let him be hurt, would stop in an instant, the second James ever said they needed to. And wouldn’t stop, otherwise. Would hold him and push him and pull him over that glittering edge of intensity, because James wanted him to.

Sitting very still on the familiar sofa, remembering, he _wanted_. Everything. Again. Now.

He licked his lips. Shivered, in the golden sunshine. The light flared hotly across his skin, or maybe that was coming from inside, at the thoughts. At those thoughts.

He stretched out one hand, through the air. Looked at it. Saw, for a split second, Michael’s fingers on his wrist, pinning him to the bed, keeping him in place. Remembered Michael’s voice saying, very clearly, _Mine_. Heard himself breathing more quickly. Yes.

Yes. Please.

His mobile phone, on the table, exploded into sound. James nearly fell off the couch.

It was Michael, the screen informed him. Of course. The phone skidded through breathless fingers, and slipped, the first time he tried to pick it up. “—ow, fuck—sorry, sorry, I’m here—how’d it go?”

“Are you all right? You sound—”

“I’m fine!” Other than the near-heart attack at the interruption, but fine in the way that Michael meant the question. “I am fine. Really. Just being clumsy. I dropped the phone. On my foot. What did they say? Did they make a decision?”

“Um…yes. Definitely yes. But I’d kind of like to tell you in person. Why are you being clumsy? You’re not usually clumsy.”

“I…it was one of those unusual moments? Honestly, you just startled me, I’m all right. And not very good at being patient. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me now?”

Laughter, over the phone. Michael sounded amused, now. Good. “Yes. I’ll be home in ten minutes, okay?”

“Five?”

“I’m not magical, James.”

“I’ll kiss you as soon as you tell me your news.”

“Well…seven minutes, then?” By the time Michael hung up, they were both laughing. The room filled up with the sound, sharing the amusement.

“Right,” James said, to his phone, afterwards, grinning, “I suppose you’re forgiven, he sounds like he’s in a good mood, so it was totally worth it,” and the now-penitent screen smirked back, agreeing.

The sunshine jumped out from behind the clouds again, and painted aureate designs with dust specks in the air, and James ran a hand through his hair because Michael liked it messy, standing up and ruffled as if he’d just come from bed. The top of his foot still kind of hurt, disproportionately so, and he’d not managed to finish reading today’s dreadful action-movie script, and none of that mattered.

He’d told Michael, over the phone, that he was all right. He meant it. He felt wonderful.

More accurately, he wanted to feel wonderful. With Michael. And those hands, on his skin.

Michael made it home precisely seven minutes and thirty-five seconds later, practically bouncing through the door, and displaying all of those gleeful teeth. Even if James hadn’t guessed from his voice, on the phone, that it’d gone well, that smile was enough to let everyone know, possibly even across continents.

Michael stopped kissing him long enough to inquire, “Foot?” and James said “What?” because his brain was entirely occupied with Michael’s lips, at the moment.

“You do have a bruise. I can see it. Are you all right?”

“I do? Oh…I do. I forgot about that. Wait, I’m not supposed to be kissing you yet, you haven’t told me what happened—Mmm, okay, not arguing…”

“Come sit down.” Michael walked them back over to the couch, pulled James down next to him. “I did say I wanted to tell you in person…”

“Yes, you did.” It couldn’t be bad, could it? Michael’d continued to smile, though there was a hint of trepidation around the edges, as if he were unsure how James might react to his news.

The sun clouded over again. The light hung around, but only dimly.

“Tell me. Please.”

“Well…” Michael put the other arm around him, too. “They offered me the role…”

“That’s brilliant! I mean, of course they did, you’re amazing, and you’re going to be a fantastic Bond and—you did say yes, right?” Michael had to’ve said yes. He couldn’t go on putting his career on hold, couldn’t turn down something as once-in-a-lifetime as this.

“I did say yes, but—”

“But?”

“Conditionally yes.”

“You…there was a condition? Why was there a condition?”

“I…” Michael hesitated. Tugged James a little more closely into the circle of his arms. “Don’t be angry with me for this, okay? I wasn’t just doing it for you; I was doing it for me, too.”

“Um…I can try, about the not being angry, once you tell me what you’re talking about. But right now I’m going to be worried instead. What did you ask them for?”

“I said…about filming…we needed to be someplace where I could come home every few days, or else they had to let you come with me. Wherever we were.”

James opened his mouth. Closed it. Then did it again. No words presented themselves. Inconsiderate vocabulary. So uncooperative.

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask you first. I didn’t even know I was going to ask for that. Until I did. Um…are you angry about this?”

He might be, a little. Mostly because Michael _hadn’t_ asked. But the anger got quickly squashed by other emotions. Michael had made the request out of love. Had said that it was for both of them, not just James. Not because he thought James needed the protection.

He thought about that some more. Almost laughed. Of course he wasn’t going to be angry. He wanted this. As much as he could’ve tried to deny it, he wasn’t fine, not yet, not completely, and he was better with Michael around, and they didn’t have to be in each other’s pockets all day, but he would’ve hated Michael leaving, for weeks or months, without him. And that wasn’t only because of the things he didn’t want to mention; it was because, given the choice, he’d always rather be with Michael.

Although… “No, I’m not angry about it. I promise. But…they agreed to that?” Since when did producers make allowances for partners with fragile emotional issues, again?

“James,” Michael said, now sounding a little exasperated, as if James wasn’t quite getting something very important, “it wasn’t negotiable.”

“But—”

“You do know what non-negotiable means.”

“No, I need you to explain it to me. In small words. With kisses.”

“Such a sarcastic mouth, James. I can think of better uses for it. But I like your other idea.” Michael kissed him, far too lightly, teasing; James glared, grabbed his head, and kissed him, instead. A real kiss. With tongue. None of that tantalizing nonsense.

“It means…” Michael kissed his neck, this time. “That you get to come with me…” The earlobe, which made James shiver. Every time. “…everywhere I go. Even if we go to…I don’t know, Iceland.”

“Iceland?”

“Ah…I was just trying to think of desolate places. But yes.”

“The Icelandic people…Icelanders? …they might be insulted by that.” Michael’s hands had made their way under his shirt; they paused, asking wordless questions, seeking out his skin. James grinned. Lifted his arms, to make things easier. “I’ve never been to Iceland.”

“Me, either. I think there are volcanoes….”

“And it’s cold.”

“I can keep you warm, if it’s cold. James?”

“Yes?”

“Why are we talking about Iceland?”

“I have,” James said, still grinning, “honestly no idea.” And then, because Michael’s hands were resting on his waist, warm and comfortable, and he loved them there, and he loved Michael, “Unless you want to spend our honeymoon in Iceland.”

“Our— _what_?”

“I was thinking someplace more tropical, but if you want—”

“James. Say that again. Please.”

“Honeymoon,” James said, cheerfully, and wanted to laugh, at the shell-shocked expression on Michael’s face. “You do—I mean, if you still want—you did ask me. Before—well, you did ask. And I do want to. I want you. I love you. So…”

“James,” Michael whispered, wide-eyed, and the hands trembled, momentarily, against his skin. “You want—of course I want to marry you, I love you, of course yes, I just wasn’t sure you would—you were thinking about it? About that?”

“Lately, yes. And I have a surprise for you. Wait here.”

 

Michael let go, reluctantly, as James wiggled out of his embrace. Watched as all the exuberant hair vanished down the hall, into their bedroom.

“James?”

“Hang on!” James sounded out of breath, like he’d been moving things around. Michael felt breathless too, even though he was standing in the same unchanged position.

He’d been sure he’d heard the word wrong, the first time James’d said honeymoon. They hadn’t even discussed the idea. Not since…well. Since. James had never brought it up; Michael had assumed that they couldn’t, shouldn’t, think about that, yet. Marriage involved the future. Their future, bright and shining and spectacular, all the plans they’d once been so thrilled to make. And they couldn’t’ve planned for any future, not when James was so slowly putting himself back together day by day.

He had let himself have those thoughts, that moment of mourning, only once, early on. He’d been dreaming; had been there on that day, the two of them standing side by side, and smiling. He’d woken up just before the vows, just before his dream James might’ve said whatever words he’d chosen to say, eyes bright and eager and beautiful under golden sunshine.

He’d opened his eyes and found his flesh-and-blood James, only a few days out of the hospital, sleeping and nightmare-free, for one miraculous moment.

He’d lain there as perfectly immobile as he could, in the velvet dark of the night. Had welcomed the sudden slow burn of tears, all at once, for all the brightness of the future they’d lost.

And James had started whimpering, in his sleep, the small fearful sounds that promised monsters in his dreams, and Michael had whispered, “It’s all right, I’m here, I love you, you’re safe,” and James had woken up with terrified eyes and had let Michael hold him, and neither of them had, after all, wept. Not that night.

Not later, either, after he’d put those thoughts, that possible future, away, and shut the door on them, firmly. He hadn’t let himself imagine, or regret, the loss, not when he’d only barely gotten to have James here with him again. He knew how lucky they’d been. He couldn’t be anything except grateful for whatever James had left to give.

And now James had said honeymoon. Had smiled, and offered them that future back.

He sat down on the arm of the couch, because he couldn’t quite stand up anymore. James wanted to marry him. Had _said_ so. Had been thinking about being married to him.

James needed to come back now, so that Michael could kiss him.

As if on cue, James popped out of their bedroom, and ran back to him, laughing. “Sorry! I thought that would be faster, but I’d done a very good job of hiding them…”

“You—what?” He’d meant that to be a more eloquent question, but he was still in some sort of astonished state of shock. He looked at James, standing there in front of him, and it felt like the first time, some sort of first time, all over again.

James looked healthy. Not the same—still thinner than he’d been, and probably some of the memories, shadowing the depths of those eyes, would never go away—but not fragile, either. Not hiding, or unhappy, or afraid.

Smiling, instead. Hair leaping up all over the place, in irrepressible waves. The jewel-blue eyes were clear and warm and smiling, too, when they met his. And James had run, not walked, back down the hall to his side.

James tipped his head to one side, curiously. “You’re staring at me with the strangest expression, you know. Kind of unnerving. Or is it the hair? Because I had to move some things in the closet and one of your shirts landed on my head and—”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. Always.” James licked his lips. Michael watched, entranced. “So, um. That was actually kind of why—well, I do have something for you. Well, for us.”

“You do?”

“I do. So…I know you bought us wedding rings, a long time ago, and I love them, and I’m going to be honored to wear mine. But it’ll take a while to plan a wedding, and I think I probably need to gain some weight for mine to fit again, and these aren’t that expensive but I thought we should have something to wear, um, for now. Because you said you might still want to marry me.”

“You—of course I want to marry you! I’d marry you right now if you asked—wait, you bought us—what did you—?”

“Here.” James produced a box from nowhere at all. Picked up Michael’s hand. “I am asking, then. I love you. You make me coffee in the mornings and you tell me I’m safe with you and I believe you. You tell me you love me, and you make me believe that, too. Even when I think I don’t deserve it. Or you. Except you also tell me I do deserve you, and maybe that’s true, because somehow I get to be with you. I want to be with you forever. Even if we end up in Iceland. And I know you already asked me once, and I said yes, and I’m saying yes again, but I’m also asking you, this time, because it _is_ finally time, so will you marry me?”

“James…I…yes. _Yes_. I love you so much, you’re amazing, you—yes, I want to marry you, yes!”

“Oh, good!” James was laughing again, blushing and trying not to, evidently embarrassed by his own relief. “I mean, I thought you might—but you might not want—I know I’m not—”

“Give me that,” Michael said, promptly, and flicked the box open with one hand, and used the other to pull James closer to him, within kissing distance. “You—” And then he stopped talking. Simple. Elegant. Pale gold, like sunlight curled into a band.

“If you want something more elaborate I can—”

“Are you insane? No. This is—you’re perfect. Come here. I want to kiss you.”

“Absolutely yes—”

In the middle of all the kissing, he felt James slide the ring onto his finger, metal cool against his skin for a split second, until it realized it’d come home and warmed up accordingly. At which point he had to say “I love you” into the kiss.

“I love you too. I did buy another one, for me…”

“They match?”

“Of course they do.”

“Here, let me have that.” He took it out of James’s hand. Collected the hand in his. Slid the circle of precious gold down along that finger. It fit perfectly. Of course.

Around them, the late-afternoon sunlight drifted in through the windows. Flooded the carpet with gold, too. Infused the worn couch, the countertops, their everyday room, with magic.

He studied James’s newly decorated hand, in his. “When did you even buy these?”

“Last week.” James was looking at their entwined hands, too, rings glimmering in the light. “While you were doing the interview with, um, _Rolling Stone_. You said you’d be gone all afternoon, so I thought I had the time, and then you came home early and I had to hide them in the couch cushions. I moved them later, but I spent the whole evening being afraid you’d notice.”

“I did think you looked nervous. I thought it was just—I mean, I don’t like leaving you alone. Which was also why the early. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, I think it worked out, don’t you?”

Michael kissed him again, because of course yes. “Yes. But you—you went shopping for these alone?”

“Mmm. You taste like everything delicious. Yes, I did. And that was fine, too. Everyone was very nice to me, and nothing happened except that I tried on a few rings—not too many, I pretty much knew I wanted these when I saw them—and I even shook hands with the very nice salesman who asked me to sign an autograph for his daughter. And then I came home. And then you came home too and surprised me, so I didn’t have any time to be impressed with myself.”

“Did I already tell you you’re amazing? Because you are.”

“You did, but I don’t mind hearing it again.”

“You’re amazing always.”

“Thank you, and so are you. I was also impressed with my own self-restraint, by the way. One of the pocket watches very much wanted me to buy it. I could tell.”

“But you didn’t?”

“Well, I was there for a specific reason. And it’s not as if I have anywhere to wear it. And I did want to make it home before you were done. So I tried to be quick.”

“You’re still amazing, and you know I’m taking you shopping tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to. Tomorrow, though. Right now…” He ran a hand up James’s arm, under the pushed-up sleeve of that inconvenient shirt, which he’d not quite managed to remove, earlier. “Right now I want you. If you want that.”

“I definitely want that.”

No room for doubt, not in that tone; Michael grinned. Tugged James back towards the bedroom, leaving discarded clothing in their wake, scattered along the way. The clothing didn’t seem to mind.

He walked James over to the bed. Kissed him again, asking the unspoken question; James kissed him right back, and then made Michael’s pants disappear, impressively fast. “I do like you being naked. Possibly you should be naked all the time.”

“I think that might alarm the general populace. And we have to go shopping tomorrow.”

“No, they’d probably appreciate it. But you make a good point; I don’t particularly want to share you, like this, with anyone else. You can just be naked here.”

“If you say so. Though…” He ran a finger over the new adornment, on his own hand. Held it up. “ _Mostly_ naked. I’m not taking this off.”

James smiled. Caught Michael’s hand in his. “Good.” And then just stayed there, holding on, running his thumb lightly across the gold, both of them nearly naked now, standing very close together in all the stillness.

Michael turned his hand. Tangled his fingers with the shorter ones. Put his other hand on top, gently, feeling the hummingbird flutter of James’s pulse.

James looked up at him, eyes very blue in the quiet. The familiar little freckles on his nose stood out, in the light. Became, abruptly, the most erotic thing Michael’d ever seen.

James breathed in, once. Gazed at his hand, engulfed in both of Michael’s. The room wasn’t silent at all. Even the air hummed with anticipation.

“You want,” James said, very softly, “you want me, right? And you know I love you?”

“Yes. To both of those. Why?”

A small lip-lick. This one was an undiscovered variation, Michael thought, with dreamlike clarity. Something like determination, and resolution, and desire.

“I want you, too. Sir.”

Speechless. Utterly. He tried. Failed. Tried again. “James—”

“I mean it.” James hadn’t moved. His hand felt warm, resting between Michael’s. And the sapphire eyes were, if not calm, completely sincere, straight open paths instead of tangled dark labyrinths. “I’m not promising you that it’ll be the same, and I don’t think I’m ready for anything too physical, but I _am_ yours. And I want to be. I’ve missed that—I’ve missed you, sir.”

“James,” Michael said again, helplessly, “I can’t—you can’t want—not after—you _can’t_ want me to do this. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Still sincere. Michael wanted desperately to believe the offer. Couldn’t.

James _couldn’t_ want this. He couldn’t comprehend how that’d ever be possible. His heart had gone numb, inside his chest. He knew it had, because he couldn’t feel it beating, anymore.

James must have been hurt even more badly than he’d thought. Enough to make the offer, to try to please, even when Michael knew it couldn’t be real.

James glanced down. Bit his lip. “Do you—you don’t believe me? That I want you? Or is it—you don’t want me, like this, anymore? If it can’t be the same?”

“No!”

“Oh…”

“No—I didn’t mean—oh, god, James, don’t think that, _please_ —I want you. I want you however you say this can work—anything—anything you want. I just can’t believe you want _this_ —are you crying?”

“…no?”

“You are. Come here. Please. I want to hold you.”

James nodded. Let Michael gather him into comforting arms and ease them both down onto the bed. The tears burned hot streaks into Michael’s bare shoulder. Like an accusation.

“James, I’m so sorry. I’m an idiot and I shouldn’t be allowed to talk. I love you. You’re wonderful, you’re perfect, please don’t cry, not because of me. Or ever. I don’t want you to cry ever. What can I do, to help? Anything at all.” He ran a hand over James’s back, feeling all the muscle, tracing remembered galaxies of freckles. He couldn’t see them, not with his cheek pressed into all that hair, but he knew they were there.

“Anything…” James breathed in, not quite a sob. “You can believe me. Please.”

Apparently his heart wasn’t quite numb, after all. Those words broke it into aching bits and trampled on all the pieces, for good measure.

“James,” he whispered, finally, past the sharp-edged debris, “if you mean this, if you want this…I don’t understand how you _can_ want this, but I’ll believe you if you tell me again that you do. And I…I want this too. I have wanted this. I’ve hated myself for wanting this, when I knew you were—so don’t ever think that it’s because of you. All right?”

A pause; in the few seconds before James answered, entire eternities went by. Whole universes collapsed in death. Were joyously reborn.

James sat up, enough to look him in the eye. Tears, trapped in long eyelashes, glittered like newly-freed diamonds. But the blue of those eyes hadn’t changed.

“I am telling you, then. I want this. I don’t want to have lost this—to have let him take this away from us, too—but it isn’t about that. I want to be able to trust you with everything, again—and I do trust you, you know that—but it’s not only about that either.”

“Then—”

“It’s simple.” James shrugged, or tried to; he was still encircled in Michael’s arms. “I want you. I know how I feel, when I look at you. And when you were holding my hand, just now. I knew what I wanted, then. And it wasn’t about him, or about proving that I could still be myself—”

“James, I love your self.”

“—I love _your_ self, too. And this _is_ what I want. For me. For us. Does that help?”

Michael nodded, because he couldn’t quite speak. James tipped his head to the side, expectantly; licked his lips again, and, unmistakably, waited for more.

“That…does help. But, James…” He ran a hand over James’s back. No scars there, at least not that he could feel. Almost the same.

Maybe. Maybe they could have this. Maybe they could be this phenomenally lucky, after all, after everything, at last.

He was probably holding James too closely, but he didn’t want to let go. Not now. “I don’t want to…I can’t…what if I…hurt you?”

“You won’t.”

“You…how can you be sure? I mean…” And then he couldn’t go on.

The blue eyes kept looking at him. Unwavering. “You want to know what I can’t do, or not yet. What the limits are. The answer is that I don’t know. Not until we try.”

“James…That’s not going to work. It’s not. Not unless—not if we don’t—please tell me what you want. What you’re going to feel—safe—with. Is that—”

“The right word? Yes. It is. And…all right.” James traced a fingertip along Michael’s chest. Thinking. Michael inhaled, automatically, at the contact. He could feel it everywhere. And that was only James touching him. Wanting him. Saying those words.

“I think…no restraints, for now. Nothing that I can’t get out of, anyway. It’s not because I don’t trust you. I do. And I don’t mind you holding my arms—” Fingers reached over. Collected one of Michael’s own shaky hands. Set it on a wrist, and squeezed. Michael couldn’t’ve moved, at that moment, if his life had depended on it, even after James lifted his own hand away.

“—it’s just, if it’s you, that’s more…about us. I _know_ it’s you, and not—anyone else. If that makes sense.”

“Yes?”  
  
"Probably, um, no gags. Nothing that..."  
  
"No. Of course not." Nothing that might bruise those lips, that voice, that fragile throat. Not ever again. James smiled, a little, at all the certainty, and went on.

“I think…you can still spank me. Same reason, and also…” The freckles were turning pink, James blushing again, but the ocean-water eyes remained steady. Truthful as the sunlight, where it’d snuck in through the window and was busy making halos out of all that hair. “…um, I do like the way that feels. I might’ve had a couple of dreams involving that, recently.”

“Oh my god.” He also couldn’t help tightening his grip, on that wrist, at that sentence; James breathed in, and went very still, all at once. Looked at him, as if having forgotten the next words before they could emerge.

Michael thought about that reaction. Then rolled them over just enough that he could grab the other hand, too, and pin it down against the mattress. James stared at him, lips parted. Promising, he decided. Definitely a good sign. “You were talking. Keep talking.”

“I…ah…um, probably…not…the vibrators…at least not the big one…not yet, anyway…this is incredibly distracting…”

“Good. Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of…” James was practically panting, now, eyes not leaving his face. And, Michael realized, thin hips were lifting up to push against his thigh, small but hungry movements. “Really?”

“I…did say I missed you…please.” The too-long eyelashes were damp; they left streaks of wetness, over freckles, when James blinked. Michael bit his lip. Lifted one hand, and collected the telltale evidence, thumbtip sliding over delicate skin. “…all right. Okay. You…not anything too physical, you said?”

“I did?”

“Earlier?”

“Oh…yes, then…but other things would be…you do remember that I like you telling me what to do. Sir.”

“Fuck,” Michael said, involuntarily, at that last word, and James laughed, despite the last gleaming residue of the tears. “What, already? Not that I’m complaining, but I might need you to, ah, do a few things, first…”

“You…” Michael shook his head, laughing a little as well. “You know I didn’t mean that. Not yet, anyway. I love you. And…oh, you still have pants on. I think…I want you to take them off. Now.”

“Yes, sir.” The eyes danced at him, as James slid out of his arms and off the bed and then out of his already-unfastened jeans, a movement that shouldn’t’ve been graceful but somehow was. Michael got up too, mostly because he felt vaguely awkward lying there on the bed watching James undress for him, as if he should be offering to help or assist or participate in some form, instead of merely observing.

James lifted an expressive eyebrow at him. “Impatient?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Just like that, the awkwardness tiptoed away. Because James had understood, and was smiling up at him.

“Bed,” Michael told him, and James started to move, then hesitated, inquiringly. “Um…position?”

“Hmm.” He had to think about that one. “On your knees. For now.” Which would make them almost the same height. “I want to talk to you, about this. Okay?”

“Of course.” James hopped back onto the bed, naked and trusting, all the stardust freckles bright against the night-blue sheets. “Like this?”

“Perfect.” He took the single step back to the side of the bed, too, so that they ended up face to face. Those sea-shaded eyes looked into his, without fear. With anticipation, he thought, lighting up the oceans, all the way down.

He’d meant to say something, to start the discussion, but instead found himself reaching out to touch, running a hand over James’s shoulder, across his stomach, the near-invisible mark of the longest memento, splitting white skin with pale pink. Back up, to find a spot at the side of that elegant throat; that one hadn’t even left a scar. No visible reminders there.

James stayed in place, as instructed. Eyes huge, pupils expanding to drink in the blueness. Not protesting the presence of Michael’s hands, drifting over long-healed wounds.

“Still all right?”

“Yes.”

That wasn’t uncertainty, in the softness of that answer. If anything, it was the opposite.

Michael touched his hip, this time, the span of skin over bone. Chased a particular pattern of welcoming freckles down one thigh. Felt muscles quiver, at the caress.

“Did I tell you to move?”

The eyes got a little larger, at the low-voiced question. “No, sir.”

“Then don’t move.”

James breathed in, close to a gasp, as if he’d momentarily been surprised by the need for oxygen. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He followed the freckles over to the inside of that scarred thigh, where they fell into an exuberantly scattered explosion. James shivered again, as his fingers explored upwards. Michael let that one go, because he could see how hard James was already, cock pressed up into his stomach and leaking, so obviously aroused by the touch, the commands, the position. And neither of them had even touched him, there, yet.

“You did miss me.”

“Yes. I did. Sir.”

“Tell me.”

“I—that I missed you? And this? I did.”

“Not just that.” He stopped moving the hand, leaving it in place, fingers only skimming all that bare skin, offered up to him. “Tell me what you want from me.”

“ _Michael_ ,” James breathed, gazing at him; and Michael contemplated ending everything on the spot and tackling James into the bed right then, because he’d never once imagined he’d see that look again. James, being _his_. Completely.

He wasn’t going to end everything on the spot. Not now. Not when he _had_ gotten to see that look, hear that tone in the voice he loved. He wanted—needed—more. James needed more.

James licked his lips, almost languidly. Answered, because Michael’d asked him a question. “I want you. I want to…be yours. All of me. You can…I want you to do…whatever you want, with me. So that I can say yes. Because you won’t hurt me—I _know_ you won’t hurt me—and I want to say yes to you. Please.”

“I love you,” Michael told him, because that was the only conceivable reply, and then picked up that hand, in his. Studied the ring, shimmering gold against warm skin. Turned it, one rotation, in place, the slide of the responsive metal like a kiss. “You _are_ mine, you know. Not my property—”

Words he’d heard James say to him, once, the evening he’d proposed. Still true; he’d never own James.

He’d accept the submission, in these moments, crystal-bright and clear as hope, because James was offering that, freely. They both loved that capitulation, the yielding that wasn’t really yielding at all, not when a word or a sound from James could still bring Michael to his knees. They both wanted that; he could see it in the blue-black of those bottomless eyes, hear it in the drumbeats of his own pulse. But never on anything less than equal terms, offer and acceptance and choice.

They both knew, now, the consequences, of anything less. Had walked through that scorched-earth wasteland together, and come out the other side. And behind them, in all the ashes, tiny new green life put out optimistic tendrils toward the sun.

James was watching him with some of that same newborn hope. Brilliant, and sweet, and vivid, reflected in the waters of those eyes.

“Not my property,” he said again, because James would, and clearly did, remember saying that to him, “and I don’t own you. But mine, anyway. Because you want to be. And I want you to be. And I’m yours, too. So anything you want, anything you need from me, you can have. And this—I want to do this, too. I want you to be mine. Because I want this, but also because you want this. And I love knowing that I can—that you’ll let me give you what you want. You can trust me, James. Always. I love you.”

And James smiled, crooked and radiant and dazzling against the mundane backdrop of sheets and pillowcases, kneeling there on the bed in front of him. “I know.”

Michael took a breath. Looked at those happy fingers, in his. At those eyes, all excited desire and joyful surrender. Turned the hand over—no resistance—and pressed a kiss into the center of the palm. Then, because James wanted him to, guided that hand carefully behind James’s back, and left it there. Watched James move the other one to meet it, after a second, understanding.

No handcuffs. No restraints. Just command. And response.

He used his own fingers to tip that chin a little higher, ensuring that James kept looking at him. Slid the other hand back between spread legs, playing with sensitive skin, but still not touching the places he knew were craving that sensation the most. Not yet.

“Rules,” he said, quietly, and felt the whisper of air over his fingers, next to those lips. “I know you remember. It’s not because I think you don’t. But if there’s anything you want to add, or anything we need to change, tell me now, all right?”

“Yes, sir.” Waiting. Not quite smiling anymore, too breathless for that, but anticipating. Wanting him.

“First rule.” He rested one finger at the base of James’s eager cock, knowing it’d be a distraction. James trembled at the feeling, but managed not to push forward, or ask for more, despite the obvious desire to try. “We said this one the very first time. You have to be here, too. Awake. Aware of what we’re doing. I need you to be able to say yes—or no—to everything. Clear?”

James did smile, then, answering that one. The accord floated up into blue eyes, and stayed there. “Yes. Sir.”

“Good.” As a reward, he wrapped his hand around all that hardness and stroked, just once; James made a sound. “Did you like that?”

“Yes—please—”

“More?”

“Please…”

“Not yet.”

The eyes changed, at that. Impossibly wide, and dark, and flooded with arousal. Beautiful, Michael thought, and said so. James blinked, which meant he was a little too self-aware, still, at the moment.

“I—”

“Yes, you are. Magnificent.” He tightened the hand, stroked again, then moved it away; James had left his mouth open, probably intending to argue, but none of the words made it out into the air..

“Second rule. You ask me, if you have any questions. You tell me, always, if you’re ever unsure about anything, or if you’re in pain, or if you even think you might possibly end up in _any_ pain afterwards. I never want to hurt you. Not ever. And I don’t want you to—if you have the smallest second of doubt, about anything, you say so. I’ll never be angry with you for speaking up. I promise. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” James was watching his lips, intently, as if trying to memorize each syllable. As if the two of them, and those words, were the only important pieces of the world.

“Third. I want you to look at me, at least when I ask you to. I know that’s hard for you, sometimes. When you—if this gets that far. And it’s fine if not—if we never get there. Wherever you’re comfortable. I mean that. But if it does, I need to be sure—I have to be able to—I need to know that you’re all right. So if you’re feeling that—submissive, and you aren’t looking, I might ask you to. I probably will. Because this is about us, James. And I want you with me. So I’ll make it an order, if that’ll help, but you have to listen. All right?”

“Um…yes. That wasn’t…did we say that one, before? I know we had the conversation, but…”

“We did. It wasn’t formal. But we never really made any of this formal, before.” He lifted the other hand, the one that’d been holding up that pointed chin, and set it against James’s cheek, thumb sliding along the arch of one cheekbone. James turned his head, slightly, into the touch. Accepted the intimacy. “We are now, though. I mean…if you want that. I do. But only if you do.”

James blinked again, eyelashes sweeping down over Michael’s thumb, then back up. “Yes, I do. I want—all of this. Sir.”

Michael remembered how to breathe, again, after an eternity. Hunted for far-flung words, amid all the astounded and unprepared delight. “You want—wait, do you mean you want me to ask you to—you _do_ want this to be formal? I mean…this. What we’re doing. Now.”

When James answered, the eyes, the voice, were as surprised, as thrilled, as Michael’s heart felt, at that moment. “If we’re being honest about things…yes. Yes, I do. But…I know you said you’d done research, back when we started this, before—do you actually know what that, um, means? Though you’ve kind of already started, now…”

“I…think I do. Yes. I mean, I’m not—I’m not going to—I mean, I read things that talked about signing contracts and I’m not going to ask you to, I wouldn’t—but if I ask you to do this, formally, it’s sort of…ceremonial, right? Wait—” He had to stop. To ask the other question. “How much do _you_ know, about this? I mean—you haven’t done this, um, before, either…”

“No, I haven’t. I—it never even came up. Before. Too…consensual.”

“But you want to.”

“Yes.”

“James…this is consensual, isn’t it? You do—you are giving consent? Because you want to?”

James lifted both eyebrows, at that. “You did say I could ask questions, right?”

“Yes!”

“Can I move my hands? For a minute?”

“Of course you can, are you all right, is this—” And then he had to stop talking, as James reached for him, put both hands on his face, and drew him closer and kissed him, determined and sweet and utterly, purely, confident.

“Oh,” Michael said, after, because he couldn’t think of any other words, and James laughed. “I love you.” And then tipped his head to one side, very deliberately put the hands back behind his back, and added, “Now ask me your question. Sir.”

“You…you…I love you too. All right, then. Um, I know there’s supposed to be an actual—there are words for this, something more like a ritual, I don’t know—but I never thought you’d want—and we haven’t even done this since—so long—and you’re so amazing and I don’t know the right words anyway but I love you, and you love me, I know you do, so, um, you want—me, right? To be your—oh, god, I don’t even know what word to use for me, for this, I’m sorry—”

“Yes.”

“Yes…what?” Had anything in that sentence even made sense? But possibly James could read his mind, considering the next words out of that tantalizing mouth. Or not, considering the sentences after that. Michael would’ve never thought of those on his own.

“Yes, I want you. And I promise to trust you. To submit to you. In bed, that is. Here, at home. To be…well, _your_ submissive. And only yours. Because you love me. Because you do make me feel safe, with all of this. Even after everything. And, um, yes, I am accepting you as my—all right, I’m only saying this this one time, because it _is_ ceremonial, so don’t worry, you’re never hearing it again—master. Dominant, if you want. Was that…formal enough for you? For this?”

Michael stared. Couldn’t speak. James grinned. “If we’re seriously being formal, this is the part where you accept, you know.”

“You…you said you hadn’t done this before…”

“I haven’t. But I did witness one or two. A long time ago. And…right after you bought me the…um, the collar…I might’ve been wanting you to ask. You’re not the only one who can look things up online.”

“James…”

“You know, you haven’t technically said yes.”

“…yes! Yes, I fucking love you, you’re incredible, yes. Oh—sorry, sorry, did you want me to be more formal, I can—”

“No, that was perfect!” James was laughing, again. Eyes brimming over with merriment, but something else, deeper, underneath. The same emotion Michael could feel bursting through all his veins. “And you’re perfect. And the other part of this is that we agree to our basic rules, together, which was why I said you’d already started…”

“Oh, right, we were—”

“Were you nearly done? Because I’d very much like to have sex with you right now. Sir.”

“Um…almost? Two more? And anything you want to say. And also I’m going to kiss you.”

“Please.”

“I love you.

“Love you.” Another smile. “Sir.”

“You—okay. Two more. We can wait that long.” He hoped. “Fourth…this one is more for me, but I want you to hear it, too. I’ll always listen, when you ask for anything. If there’s anything you want, that I’m not doing, or if there’s anything you want me not to do—I want you to ask—I said I wanted you to tell me, if you weren’t feeling sure, and I want you to know I mean that. As soon as you say stop, if you ever say stop, I’ll stop. The second you ask. Or if you tell me that you’re thinking about asking. And you will tell me. Agreed?”

“Agreed. And…thank you. I know you would, but…”

“It helps, for you, when I say it, doesn’t it?”

“I think so, yes.”

“I thought so, too. That was why.” He ran a hand over James’s shoulder. Down the length of one arm, where hands met, out of sight. Back up. Set a finger in the hollow at the base of that graceful throat; felt the flurry of James’s pulse, speeding up beneath his touch.

“Last one, then…you _are_ mine. At home, I mean. In the bedroom. Sometimes in public if you want—if I ask you to do something, like wearing your vibrator on the film set, and if you say yes—but only as far as you’re comfortable with that. Only if you agree. In here, though…mine.” James was breathing rapidly now, absorbing those words; Michael glanced down, and raised eyebrows. “You like this, don’t you? Me saying these things, telling you that you’re mine?”

“ _Yes_.” Virtually a gasp. The pupils, surrounded by a thin ring of blue, were vast pools of black. Michael grinned, inwardly, and kept talking.

“This…” He trailed a hand along the length of that graceful body, shoulder to thigh; James swallowed, eyes closing briefly, then opening to find his. “All mine. You don’t touch yourself, unless I tell you to. You don’t move, when I tell you not to move. You don’t come until I give you permission. And you listen when I give you an order. Um. Except for the…exceptions. That you just agreed to.”

James half-smiled, at the last-second elaboration; Michael shrugged, and returned the expression, somewhat ruefully. He had needed to say it. “Sorry. But…”

“I know. It’s fine. I’d rather you say it than, um, not. For both of us. But you did sort of interrupt the moment. And I was enjoying that moment. So possibly I can tell you yes one more time and you can go back to what you were saying before…?”

Michael laughed. Kissed him, quickly and forcefully enough to leave sea-spray eyes blinking, dazed, in the wake. “If you say so. So…if you have questions, or if you need to stop, all you ever have to do is ask. But otherwise…”

This time he moved his hand lower. Rested it on perfect curves, recalling how they’d always grown warm under his hand, lines and rednesses and heat like poetry. He knew, beyond any doubt, that James was remembering that sensation too.

“Otherwise, in here, you did say I could do whatever I wanted, with you. And I will. If I want to watch you come, screaming my name, or if I want to leave you right there on the edge and make you wait, knowing how much you want it…you’ll do it. For me. Because you can. And you’re beautiful. Like this, being mine, and also always. And I _will_ remind you of that, any time you don’t think you are.”

“You—”

“That’s not negotiable, either. And we already established that you know what non-negotiable means.”

“But I’m not—”

“What did I just say? Tell me.”

James blinked again, at that tone. Breathed in, once. “You…said you would…because I agreed to let you, that you would do whatever you wanted, with me. Sir.”

“Are you still consenting to that?”

“Yes, sir,” James said, instantly, and then bit his lip. “Oh.”

“Exactly.” But despite the agreement, he felt a little cold, inside. He had wondered about that, early on. During the long days of silences and unspoken fears. He’d told himself that it wouldn’t matter, that they’d taken those steps once already, talked James into believing that he was lovable and worthy of being loved. He could do it again. He would do it again.

Secretly, someplace very deep down inside, he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to. That some pieces of what they’d rebuilt the first time had survived.

And maybe that was true, maybe a few of those fragments remained upright, but the fortifications had been undermined, the explosions set off in the tunnels, and the supporting walls blown to bits. He’d heard the ruin, in that sun-warmed Scottish voice.

James was gazing at him, no doubt wondering why the pause; Michael found a smile for him, and shook his head: don’t worry, you haven’t done anything wrong. James hadn’t, after all. The wrong had happened _to_ him, and neither of them had been able to prevent it.

He thought about that evening, two days ago, again. About James in his arms, shaking, on the floor. About the bleakness in blue eyes, oceans drained of all their vitality. From something as ordinary as a hand on his shoulder, a crowd, a touch from someone he didn’t recognize.

But James had listened to him, then. Had held onto him in return, and heard his voice, and had come back. To him.

So maybe there would always be bad days. But they didn’t have to end badly. They could end with his arms around James, in bed. And James looking up, and beginning to smile, at Michael’s voice saying his name.

He could say that name now. And other things. Commands. Orders. Because James wanted him to.

So he did. “Lie down.”

Graceful, as ever; James slid down onto the bed, one smooth movement, almost balletic, and then lifted his arms, leaving his hands above his head on the pillow. Looked up.

“Good.” He brushed fingers over that straining arousal, as a reward; James whimpered, and wetness spread across the tip, leaking and pooling over that pale stomach. “Not yet,” Michael told him, and James moaned, a sound that might’ve been his name, or _more_ , or _please_ , but very clearly wasn’t _stop_.

“You can wait. I know you can. Because I’m telling you to wait.” This time he leaned down and licked, deliberately, tongue flickering through all that dampness, caressing the delicate slit; James gasped, tensing everywhere, and Michael shook his head again and sat up and then kissed the hollows of the closest hip, instead, tracing irregularly spiraling freckles. Breathed out, once, warm air over wet skin.

James made a sound that was nearly a sob. Arched his back, restive. Michael smiled, against that hip, and then bit down, not hard, but enough that James would feel teeth. A reminder. His.

James gasped again, at the sharper sensation. At the reassertion of control. Michael ran a hand over the newly pink mark, after, both soothing and reinforcing the sensation. “You said you wanted this. I want this, too. I want all of you. You belong to me, in here. No one else. Not ever. I told you once that I’d keep you safe, and I will. Because you’re mine, and I’m the only one who gets to see you like _this_.” He flicked fingers over one hard nipple, playing, pinching, making James cry out, softly, into the golden air.

“You like that, don’t you? Me telling you those things? You said that once; do you remember that?” This time he did it a bit harder. James made that wordless sound again, moving against the sheets, under Michael’s hand, entire body pleading for more.

“That was a question, James.” He took the hand away; heard the near-inaudible “ _Don’t_ —” in response.

“If you want me to touch you, you need to answer me.”

Those luminous eyes found his, slowly; blinked twice, as James hunted for elusive words. “Yes…”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I do remember that…and yes, I still like that…this…you talking to me like this. Michael?”

“What is it?”

“You know…you _are_ the only one who’s seen me like this. Ever.”

He needed a second to process that statement. And then couldn’t keep the possessive growl out of his own voice, answering. “Good. Because you’re mine.”

“Yes—”

“Say so.”

“Yours.”

“Yes. You are.” James smiled, at the firmness; licked his lips. Michael took a deep breath, and then said, carefully, “You know I want you. And I love you. You do believe that. I mean…I’m telling you to believe that. Because it’s true.”

James started to answer. Stopped, looking thoughtful.

“James? Talk to me?” Please.

“You…I asked you to marry me. And you said yes. You want to marry me.”

“Of course I—you weren’t thinking I’d say no? James—”

“No…not exactly…”

“You shouldn’t be thinking that at all. I would—I mean, this—” He looked at his own hand. Held it up, ring catching the last of the light, sending beams of reflected gold around the room. One of those scraps of sunlight bounced into James’s hair. Stayed there, having found a home.

“We can say the words in front of witnesses, later. Your family, my family, everyone. I want to say those words to you. But as far as I’m concerned we are married. In every way that’s important. You said yes to me and I said yes to you and you bought us rings and I’m going to love you for fucking forever, James, always. Everything else might make it legal, but this…” He touched the ring. Watched James watching the motion.

“This makes it real. And I’m never going to leave you, and I’m never going to not want you, and I’m never going to not think you’re amazing.” He leaned down. Met blue eyes with his own, mere inches apart. “Clear?”

James nodded, eyes as huge and clear as oceans, the sun spilling over endless waves. Whispered, after a second, not looking away, “Yes.”

“Good.”

“Michael?”

“Yes?”

“Really yes. I mean…everything you said. Yes. Me too. And…also, yes, I believe you. That you want me. That you can want me. That you love me.”

“You—”

“I did see your expression, earlier. And I thought about it. And…I still don’t quite understand how, or why, but I know you mean it. So…maybe it’s true.”

“It is.” He’d’ve tried for a longer sentence, but then he might’ve needed to cry. Not ruins after all. Not whole, maybe, not yet, but standing strong.

“Michael?”

“…what? Sorry.”

“If we’re married, then…you’re my husband. I’m _your_ husband.”

“…oh my _god_.”

“I know!” The ocean-water eyes were laughing, now. Amused. Excited. And Michael looked at all that happiness, and suddenly all the previous arousal reasserted itself with a vengeance, shooting pure arrows of lust all the way down his spine, pooling under his skin, making his cock heavy with it.

“James,” he said, and all that heat must’ve been audible, scraping through his voice, because James went abruptly quiet, looking at him. Aware.

“You said you were my husband. Mine. Do you know what word traditional wedding vows include, James?”

James didn’t quite seem able to talk. Michael grinned. Ran a hand over that chest. Lower. James definitely wanted him, he discovered. Wanted this.

He closed the hand around James’s cock. Breathed, into an ear, “Love, of course. Honor, absolutely. But also…obey.”

James gasped. Shuddered, against him. And his cock jerked, in Michael’s hand, a pulse of wetness trickling between tight fingers.

“And you do want to obey me. Don’t you?”

“Yes—oh, _god_ , yes—please—”

“Yes what, James?”

“Yes, sir…”

“You want me inside you? Taking you, filling you up with me? Making you feel me, afterwards, everywhere?”

“Yes _please_.”

“Then be good. For me.”

James whimpered. Frustrated, at the denial, at the unfulfilled and relentless need. But not protesting. Only waiting, quivering with effort, cheeks flushed and eyes dilated, and all the cinnamon-spice freckles glowing like exotic treasure over the dark blue expanse of the wrinkled sheets. Spectacular.

“Beautiful,” Michael told him again, testing, and when James blushed, rested a finger over those lips, not exerting any pressure at all, only affirmation. “You are.” This time he let his hand wander up along stretched-out arms, settling briefly in the center of one palm, then seeking out one finger in particular, the line of sensuous gold over skin.

James whispered his name, very quietly.

Michael looked at his face, and then leaned down and kissed him, gently but certainly, avowal and desire and confirmation all in one.

James parted his lips. Allowed Michael to lay claim to his mouth, to taste every millimeter, every atom of skin. Not passive—James was definitely kissing him back, actively embracing the conquest—but devoutly, earnestly, obedient. Relinquishing control, deliberately, and trusting Michael to accept it. To accept him.

Michael paused, in the middle of the kiss. Pulled back enough to say, “I love you so fucking much,” and watched blue eyes sparkle.

“I know you do.” That Scottish-melody voice hid a hint of laughter, in that phrasing. Which Michael didn’t in fact mind, but did mean that James wasn’t as far gone into incandescent surrender as he’d thought. More, then.

“Something funny about my choice of language, James?” He set his hand, barely making contact, over the closest slim wrist and all its inviting freckles. Not pinning James down, or not hard. Only enough to let both of them know who was in charge.

“That _was_ a question. I want you to answer me.”

“I…maybe. But I can’t remember why, now. Michael…”

“More?” He knew the answer was yes even before James nodded. Saw the sparks of need in those glorious eyes. So he waited for the nod anyway, then found the other hand and tugged both of them together above all the unruly hair and pressed both wrists into the pillows. One-handed, because he knew James liked that, the sensation of both his hands captured and secured under only one of Michael’s.

It worked this time, too. The eyes kindled, blue-black and electric, pupils expanding to swallow the color. And James’s breathing changed, swiftly erotic little gasps of air. Almost, he thought.

He had one free hand; he slid it up along the sensitive muscles of an inner thigh, one unbroken caress, and then left it there, resting at—but not touching—the base of James’s cock, which had to be painfully hard, by now, leaking messily onto that stomach, liquid need painting scars and freckles and white skin alike. Heard James moan, nearly inarticulate. “Sir…”

“No. Not yet. You did say yes, to this. To whatever I wanted. And right now I want to make you wait. Until I decide you’re ready. Until I let you come. Because you’re mine, James.” James trembled again; the hands, above his head, quivered, fingers curling inward, but they stayed in place. And those eyes remained on Michael’s, watching with dreamy intensity.

Michael smiled, a little. Murmured, “So good, James, you’re so good for me, I love you,” and maybe it was the praise, or the fact that he’d moved the hand just enough to brush all the delicious arousal with his thumb, but that _was_ it; James sighed, and shut his eyes briefly, and shuddered, head falling back against the mattress, and when the eyes opened again they were still bright but more distant, ocean-blue drenched in ecstasy.

For a second, Michael forgot to keep doing anything at all, just caught up in the sight. He’d said beautiful. He’d meant sublime.

But they weren’t done, of course. He watched the eyes. Listened to James breathing, shimmering sounds of capitulation.

He ran one finger over the closest hip, tracing small circles, random patterns, knowing that the provocation would be both nearly too much and not far enough; James shivered, begging mutely for more, weightless and malleable under Michael’s hands, his voice, the tethers that held James to him through all the transcendence. Not everything, he thought again. Not yet. He needed to see James explode for him. Needed to be there with him, when the supernova came.

“James?” He did have to make certain. Always would. “Can you hear me?” And received a gratifyingly immediate nod, in answer. “Good.”

This time he touched those expressive lips, fingers grazing pink skin, wet where James’d been licking them, unconsciously; James tipped his head up, involuntarily seeking out the contact. Michael smiled back. Pressed down slightly harder; heard the whimper. “Mine,” he said again, and then, “legs apart,” and those legs spread at his command.

He took his time. James was already incredibly compliant, acquiescent and trusting when Michael pressed fingers inside that welcoming space, but he coaxed every last bit of resistance out of quivering muscles anyway, leaving only complete openness, ready for him.

When he found that certain spot, James breathed in, and pushed back against him. So he explored further, deliberately drawing out the sensations, and heard James moan his name, and then other disjointed words, _yes_ and _please_ and _yes_ again and, pleadingly, _now_.

He paused. Looked at blue eyes. After a second, they found his, in return. And there was a smile glittering back there, in the tropical-ocean depths. Still here. Still with him. Perfect.

“I love you,” he said, softly, and that smile got even brighter, glinting up through the waves, through all the swirling pleasure and the white-hot ache of denial and the omnipresent need. “I want to be inside you, I want you, can I—?” and that should’ve been an order, but somehow it tumbled out as a question and neither of them cared.

James nodded again. Kept gazing up at him.

“Are you—it’s okay if you can’t—if you don’t feel like talking. Just…kick me, or something, if you want to stop, all right?” He did have to say it. Had to make certain, beyond any doubt, that James remembered which one of them had that control. That James knew, even while obeying all those orders, that Michael would never ask anything more than he wanted to give.

This time, when James smiled, the lips curved upwards too. “Not…thinking we’ll need to stop…but thank you. Sir.”

“Oh. You _can_ talk.”

“Not really…”

“Oh,” Michael said again, realizing. Of course James had answered him; he’d asked a direct question. But it’d been an effort; he could hear the pauses, the distractions of euphoria, tangling in that wonderful accent. And James was shaking, everywhere, at each repeated touch, intermittent shudders of continuous pleasure.

“Okay. You don’t have to talk. If you don’t want to. Just let me know you’re still here. Better?”

A nod, this time. Better, clearly. And the eyes were eager, now.

“Love you,” Michael told him, one more time, and then slid into position, and into James, slowly, inch by inch.

They both gasped, in unison, when he plunged all the way home.

He stayed immobile, for a second, in part to let James adjust to the fullness. In part only because he _couldn’t_ move, looking down at James beneath him. He had one hand curled loosely around those wrists, and the other hand on the bed for support, and James’s left leg had wrapped around his waist, instinctively pulling him closer, and those so-blue eyes were smiling.

Michael breathed in. Out. Absolutely humbled. In awe.

Then he moved, because James wanted him to. Cautiously, at first. Then a bit faster, deeper, when James gasped again, and moved under him, restless with yearning. Some of the focus faded away, in the sapphire gaze: James falling back into flight, into exultant surrender, not thinking, not worried or afraid or doubting anything at all, just _being_. For him.

James cried out, helplessly, when Michael found that spot again and thrust into him, hard. Arched his back, head tossing against the pillow. Asking.

“Shh,” Michael told him, softly, “soon,” and brushed his free hand over that flat stomach, following the shimmering line of the faded scar. Thrust again, precisely aimed. Slid out, and back in, unceasing, until James was practically delirious from sensation, in his arms, moving under him almost mindlessly. And listened to the small tremulous sounds, not quite sobs, every time James breathed.

“So beautiful,” he said, this time, and then did close his hand around James’s desperate cock, and stroked, once. James opened his mouth, but no sound escaped; maybe he’d forgotten how to speak, or maybe he thought he had. Michael kissed him, for that. And then did it again.

“Mine, James. All of you. And I want that. I want you. And I’m yours, too. And I love you.” James shivered, all over, the need radiant and tangible between them, and Michael pushed forward again, as deeply as he could, joining their bodies together, and then tightened his grip on James’s cock and whispered, “Come,” and James breathed in, a very tiny extraordinary flicker of sound, and _came_.

Michael followed, because he couldn’t stop himself. Couldn’t do anything, other than be swept away.

Once he regained a modicum of awareness, and figured out that the world had kept turning, he looked back at James. Who’d kept shivering, beneath him, all the inhales and exhales worryingly uneven. He lifted his hand away from those wrists, gingerly; James caught his breath, off-balance, with the removal of support.

“James.” He touched the closest cheek, lightly, cradling freckles in his palm; James didn’t move the arms, but did turn his head, eyes closed, burrowing into the caress. Michael bit his lip. Rubbed his thumb across soft skin, connecting freckles into a coherent whole. “You’re here. You’re all right. I’m here, too. I’ll always be here. I love you.”

A smile, into his hand; some of that remaining tension ebbed, soothed by his voice. Coming down, he thought. Coming back. To him.

“You were so good. For me. You always are. But just in case you don’t remember, I can say it again. I need you to do one more thing, though. I need you to breathe, okay? For me? Deep breaths?” He waited; James listened, after a second, and Michael watched the rise and fall of his chest, in the dwindling sunlight. The light lingered on all that long-mended skin, not wanting to leave; Michael wholly understood.

James sighed, softly. One more small tremor ran through his body, the last escape of all that intensity, but he settled even more comfortably into the welcome of the bed, into Michael’s touch, after.

“Perfect,” Michael told him this time, “you’re amazing, remember, we talked about that one? We decided that. About you. And you—this—you wanting this— _really_ fucking amazing, okay? Oh—profanities, sorry, you might not want to hear—but you are anyway. And I love you.”

James was looking at him now, eyes exhaustedly serene, but the amusement was very clear, coming through at that hastily-edited sentence.

“Better?”

James nodded. Emphatically. And the smile got wider, and lit up the bedroom, and the distant sunset, and the world.

“Good.”

“Yes.”

“Oh—that wasn’t a question, you don’t have to—”

“I know. But it was. Good, I mean. Not only good. More.”

“More…good?”

“More than good. I think I’ve forgotten…adjectives. Words. You’re lucky I can talk at all.”

“Yes,” Michael said, very quietly, and swallowed, all too aware of the motion of his own throat, when he did. “I am. James?”

“…Michael?”

“Are you…was that…all right? For you? Are we…good?”

And James smiled again. Moved his hands, this time. Set them on Michael’s shoulders, and tugged him closer. Then kissed him, sparkling and ecstatic and breathtaking as the tingle of champagne, or an unlooked-for homecoming, or the final dazzling sunbeams, shooting in from the window to celebrate too. “We’re _more_ than good.”

“I…you…I love you. So much.”

“Yes,” James said, and then shivered again, pupils still wide, not entirely back to normal. “Can you…hold me, please? For a minute? And I love you too.”

“Of course.”  Anything. Anything James might want, or need, or feel safe enough to ask for. “Like this? Or—”

“This is nice, yes…”

Outside, the afternoon turned itself into twilight, bit by bit. Oranges and pinks gave way to violet-blue and grey; Michael contemplated trying to flip on the bedroom light, and then decided that he didn’t want to move.

James was a solid warmth, in his arms, pressed against him. Not quite asleep; his breathing was too irregular for that. Not fully awake, either, though; he let out a drowsy half-protest when Michael wiggled an arm into a more comfortable position.

“Shh,” Michael said, into all the weary hair, and draped one leg over James’s shorter limbs, holding him in place, holding on. James made a slightly different, inquisitive, noise, then.

“No, we’re not. Not again. Not tonight. You need to rest. All right?”

“Mmm…all right. Maybe tomorrow…”

He ran a hand through all that hair. It stuck to his fingers, damp with drying sweat. James sighed, and relaxed, drifting back towards sleep. “Or not,” Michael murmured, out loud but purposefully low-voiced, and took the worn-out silence as confirmation.

Maybe the day after. Or the day after that. They didn’t need to rush things. They did have all the time in the world, now. An entire future.

One of James’s hands, the one newly adorned with the ring, was resting on his waist. He couldn’t see the metal, without moving, but he could feel it, purring contentedly against his skin. He loved it there. Loved the weight of his own, on his finger. It belonged on that finger. The same way that James belonged in his arms.

James, mostly asleep, the soft light of evening kindly blurring all the scars, looked like artwork. Exquisite, and timeless, and one of a kind.

A dark comma of hair fell over one closed eye; Michael wanted to brush it away, but couldn’t figure out how to accomplish that without needing to move at least one hand.

James was his husband. Not officially, not legally—yet—but he’d meant every word. And James had said yes. And then had given himself to Michael, completely, without fear. Only trust.

He glanced at the hair again. Suddenly, inexplicably, found himself near tears.

James sighed. Curled more closely into his arms; and Michael realized, abruptly, that all that bare skin felt chilled, in the places his embrace hadn’t been shielding, and then hated himself, a little. He knew how easily James got cold, especially in these moments, in the aftermath. He should’ve been taking care of James. Shouldn’t’ve let him fall asleep, tired and needing to shower and with icy toes.

The guilt sunk claws into his heart, and stayed there, batting that flimsy organ around.

James _was_ his husband, now. Did trust him. Loved him. The claws poked some new holes, more sharply.

Should he wake James up? What if sleep was what he needed? James had asked to be held, and had to be exhausted, physically, emotionally, from what they’d just done. Maybe resting here, in Michael’s arms, was the best thing for him.

But James was cold. Michael, holding onto him, silently panicked, torn between competing options.

And then James yawned, stirred, and rendered the decision irrelevant by waking up, blinking sleepy summer-sky eyes at him. “Hi…”

“James—”

“Are you all right?”

“Me? I—you—I should be asking you that!”

“I’m not the one who’s gone all…tense. And who’s looking at me as if I should be on the verge of death. Am I on the verge of death?”

“Are you? You look cold. Your feet are cold. And I—here—” He lunged for the closest sympathetic blankets. Dragged them over James, who emerged from the folds with hair in his eyes and an affectionately annoyed expression.

“All right, what just happened? I thought we were comfortable…”

“We were. Until you weren’t. You need to get warm. Come here.”

“I’m not complaining—I like you holding me—but seriously, you’re scaring me a little.” James shook the hair out of his face. Michael, who’d been about to do it for him, flinched: he was scaring James? All at once he couldn’t quite breathe.

“Okay…” James freed one arm, then the other, from the clinging blankets. Sat up. Picked up Michael’s hands in his. “Bad choice of words. Sorry. I’m not very awake yet. Look at me, though? Please?”

“I love you.”

“And I love you, too. And you remember what you said to me, a few minutes ago? I’m here, and you’re here, and I’m fine. I’m wonderful. Maybe a tiny bit tired, but still wonderful, all right?”

“You didn’t tell me you were cold.”

“Because I didn’t notice. It’s not that bad. Though…”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything’s very much right. I was going to say, if you want something to do for me, I am kind of thirsty. Water, possibly?”

“Of course.” He pulled his hands away, reluctantly. He missed the touch of those fingers as soon as they left his, but James’d made a request, so Michael hopped off the bed, took two steps toward the door, ran back over and kissed those tempting lips, and then sprinted in the direction of the kitchen, pausing long enough to shout, “Stay under the blankets!”

He couldn’t quite hear James’s reply, but it seemed to contain a comment about the friendliness of said blankets, which had to be a joke, which had to mean that James was feeling well enough to make jokes.

He grabbed a glass. Filled it. Wondered whether James wanted ice, or whether that’d be too cold. James had said he was cold, even if he’d then tried to say it wasn’t that bad.

The refrigerator stared at him, wordlessly reproaching his indecision. “I know,” Michael said to it, “I know, I’m sorry, I’m trying to take care of him, I swear,” and then wondered when the hell he’d started reassuring their appliances, and decided that that must have something to do with James, and also that he didn’t actually mind.

He caught himself pouring a third glass of water, this one with precisely two ice cubes, and setting it down in between the other two, and then had to stop and breathe for a while.

James was fine. Had to be. Certainly seemed to be. And had promised to tell him, if not.

James hadn’t been fine, two days ago. But had, this afternoon, been laughing, smiling, teasing him. Proposing to him.

He stood there in the kitchen with the water glasses gazing back at him, and failed to make sense of all the contradictions. Heard his own voice, saying _mine_. Giving orders, demanding compliance. And James, answering _yes_. Obeying.

But James did want that. He believed that. Had heard the truth in that answer, in the promises they’d made.

The water, the lines of glass, caught the overhead light and twinkled back at him, hearteningly. He took a deep breath. Then another. Wondered how best to transport all of the glasses back into the bedroom; he could’ve just picked one, but he didn’t want to leave the others behind. They all wanted to help James.

“So, when I asked if you could get me water, I didn’t think it’d involve some sort of multiple-choice solution…”

“It’s not a _what the hell are you doing up?_ ” He spun around to find James, leaning against the wall, and bundled up in the largest and fluffiest of their blankets. “You said you’d stay in bed!”

“No, _you_ said I’d stay under the blankets, and I am.” James grinned. Only his face was visible, blue eyes and freckles and faint ginger scruffiness peeking out from the folds. And some irrepressible loops of hair. Of course.

“Besides, it’s been almost twenty minutes. I was starting to think you’d fallen asleep on the way.”

“It has not!” He flung a glance at the clock, on the wall. Which promptly betrayed his confidence. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry, I was coming back, I promise, I was just—I was—” He glared at the refrigerator. It paid no attention at all.

“It’s fine.” James considered the display of water for a few perceptive seconds. “I thought you might be out here making yourself worry too much. Which you are. So I figured I should come find you. And maybe ask you to kiss me.”

“I’m not—you want me to kiss you? Right now?”

“Yes, please.”

Michael ventured the two steps to his side, slowly. Put out a hand and drew James away from the supportive wall and closer to him. Looked down into unflinching eyes, infinitely blue, and calm, waiting for him.

James smiled, when their lips came together. Opened his mouth and coaxed Michael’s tongue into meeting his, playful and determined and understanding.

“I’m not worrying too much,” Michael tried to say, into the kiss, and James shook his head and reached up and pulled Michael’s head down against his, other hand settling at the base of Michael’s spine, warm and possessive.

“I love you. And I’m all right. And you were—you _are_ —everything I’ve been wanting. I just wanted to come find you and tell you so. Better?”

“…maybe. Can I put you back in bed, now?” He collected all the water, along the way. Kind of complicated, considering that he also refused to stop touching James, but possible. Like so many other things.

Back in the bedroom, he followed James’s beckoning fingertips under the blankets, and then discovered a surprise. “You’re still naked!”

“You didn’t say I could get dressed.” But the eyes were teasing him, now. Serenely blue as the sky at noon, cloudless and clear.

He said it anyway. “You’re not…I mean, we’re only…that’s only in the bedroom, right? And, yes, I know we’re technically in the bedroom now, you can stop trying not to smile, you know what I mean. You know I don’t want that. And you don’t…we meant that the same way, right?” And then he held his breath.

James picked up the closest water, the one with the two half-melted ice cubes. Took a sip. Then smiled at him. “Yes. We did. I wasn’t serious, just now. I’d’ve gotten dressed if I’d wanted to. I didn’t. I don’t mind being naked, around you. And I think you enjoy that, too—”

“I do!”

“—so that was the only reason. All right?”

“Um…yes. You don’t mind being naked? Around me?”

“Well…I’m not sure I’m ever going to understand why that makes _you_ smile so much, but I’m not…I don’t mind if you want to look. Or touch. I trust you.”

“I—love you. You said this was…everything you’d been wanting. For a while?” He kept needing to touch James. Everywhere. Pale stomach, skin glowing in the cool grey light. Tucked-up legs. Freckled arms. He had one of his own arms around those shoulders, but the other hand couldn’t bring itself to settle down. It had to memorize, to relearn, each curve, each line, every muscle.

“For…a few weeks, anyway. I don’t know. I can’t give you an exact date. But when I told you I missed you…this…”

“You meant it. I know. You never asked.”

“I…” James glanced away. Beyond the window, the starlight wandered in, accompanied by trailing clouds. The night had decided to be cool, not cold, after all. “I wasn’t sure I could. Or should, maybe. I mean…I do know that’s not…I know I should be scared, or something. Afraid of giving up control. And I was, for a while. But I told you once that I didn’t want to be scared anymore. And I don’t want to be ashamed of wanting this, because I do want this. Even if it’s not…I don’t know, normal. Considering. Does that make sense? ”

Michael couldn’t answer, at first. Just held him more tightly, the other arm wrapping around the scars, too, coming to rest. Once he thought he might be able to talk, he said, into James’s hair, “I love you. And you shouldn’t be ashamed of anything, and not of this, not ever. I want you. Like this, or not like this if you ever say you want to stop, or however you say you want me, as long as you’re happy. You deserve to be happy, James, you _do_ , and fuck normal, okay, if this is what you want—if this is what _we_ want, because it is, I want this too—then I don’t want you to ever worry about how you think you ought to feel. I love you. I always will. And I’m so fucking proud to be your husband.”

“You,” James said, and then shook his head, hair flickering across Michael’s face like a kiss, and then twisted around and kissed him in actuality, with lips that tasted of saltwater and starlight.

“Are you crying? Look at me.”

“Maybe a little…Michael?”

“What is it? Can I help?”

“You already are. And I love you. And I love being married to you. Or as good as. And—oh, my god.”

“What?”

“You _are_ my husband. You’re going to be James Bond. I’m married to James Bond!”

“Fuck me,” Michael said, honestly shocked, because he’d somehow forgotten all about that particular detail in the past couple of hours, “I’m going to be James Bond,” and James began laughing, in his arms, and so Michael couldn’t help laughing too, through the tears. The stars glimmered through the window, and the blankets were warm, and James was happy, and the whole world rang with the sound, clear as a bell. As church bells, in the night.

“That,” James managed to say, “has to be my favorite sentence of yours ever, I’m going to remember that and quote you in interviews…”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, really? Are you sure?” The eyes were sparkling at him, brighter than the moon, outside.

“Actually…I’m pretty sure you will. Because I’ve just told you not to.”

“I—”

“You did say I could spank you, as I recall. If I think you deserve it.”

Which resulted in the gratifying sight of James staring at him, openmouthed and wide-eyed, in perfect silence. Excellent.

He waited, considerately, for James to close his mouth and be able to think again, before the next question. “James?”

“I…you…yes?”

“You do realize, if I’m going to be Bond…”

“Oh, no. Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it.”

“…that makes you my Bond girl. You’re my Bond girl, James.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t. I love you. Can I be called something fun? You know, like Pussy Galore, but more…manly?”

“James,” Michael said, “I already know exactly what to call you,” and when James looked at him, blue eyes curious, he leaned in, lips brushing one ear, and whispered, “ _Mine_.”


End file.
